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    In His Arms
    In His Arms
    In His Arms
    Ebook351 pages5 hours

    In His Arms

    By Robin Lee Hatcher

    3.5/5

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    Dear Inga, I’m thinking it is not good for my baby and me to stay much longer in Whistle Creek, Idaho. The sheriff is showing altogether too much interest. I suppose I should feel flattered, for Carson Barclay is not only strikingly handsome, but a man of character and faith who has shown Keary and me considerable kindness. But I’m afraid his affections are ones I cannot return. The secret I bear makes a future with him impossible. Yet Inga, when Sheriff Barclay is near, it’s everything in my Irish heart that wishes otherwise. Your friend, Mary Emeline Malone Idaho: mountainous, rugged. Men go there to find their fortunes in the silver mines—and lose their pasts. But as Mary Malone discovers, sometimes the past is not so easily shaken. It will take a good man’s strong, persistent love to penetrate the young immigrant’s defenses and disarm the secret that makes a hostage of her heart. In His Arms is Book Three in the Coming to America series about women who come to America to start new lives. Set in the late 1800s and early 1900s, these novels by best-selling author Robin Lee Hatcher craft intense chemistry and conflict between the characters, lit by a glowing faith and humanity that will win your heart. Look for other books in the series at your favorite Christian bookstore.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherZondervan
    Release dateDec 15, 2009
    ISBN9780310862581
    Author

    Robin Lee Hatcher

    Robin Lee Hatcher is the author of over 80 novels and novellas with over five million copies of her books in print. She is known for her heartwarming and emotionally charged stories of faith, courage, and love. Her numerous awards include the RITA Award, the Carol Award, the Christy Award, the HOLT Medallion, the National Reader’s Choice Award, and the Faith, Hope & Love Reader’s Choice Award. Robin is also the recipient of prestigious Lifetime Achievement Awards from both American Christian Fiction Writers and Romance Writers of America. When not writing, she enjoys being with her family, spending time in the beautiful Idaho outdoors, Bible art journaling, reading books that make her cry, watching romantic movies, and decorative planning. Robin makes her home on the outskirts of Boise, sharing it with a demanding Papillon dog and a persnickety tuxedo cat.

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      Book preview

      In His Arms - Robin Lee Hatcher

      By Robin Lee Hatcher

      Coming to America Series

      Book One: Dear Lady

      Book Two: Patterns of Love

      Book Three: In His Arms

      Book Four: Promised to Me

      Loving Libby

      A Carol for Christmas

      ZONDERVAN

      In His Arms

      Copyright © 2001 by Robin Lee Hatcher

      All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of Zondervan.

      ePub Edition June 2009 ISBN 0-310-86258-2

      Requests for information should be addressed to:

      Zondervan, Grand Rapids, Michigan 49530

      Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

      Hatcher, Robin Lee.

      In his arms / Robin Lee Hatcher.

          p. cm.—(Coming to America)

      ISBN-10: 0-310-23120-5

      ISBN-13: 978-0-310-23120-2

      1. Irish American women—Fiction. 2. Armagh (Northern Ireland: County)

      —Fiction. 3. Sheriffs—Fiction. 4. Idaho—Fiction. I. Title.

      PS3558.A73574 I5 2001

      813’.54—dc21                                                                                          00-140139

      All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or any other—except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without the prior permission of the publisher.

      Interior design by Todd Sprague

      To my cousin, Connie Burke Bunch, who loves all things Irish.

      And to Mom, who told me I should use my great-grandmother’s name in a book some day.

      So here is my story about Mary Emeline Malone from County

      Armagh, Ireland.

      I’m hoping you find her perfect altogether.

      Contents

      Title Page

      Copyright Page

      About the Author

      Acknowledgments

      Preface

      Proloque

      Chapter One

      Chapter Two

      Chapter Three

      Chapter Four

      Chapter Five

      Chapter Six

      Chapter Seven

      Chapter Eight

      Chapter Nine

      Chapter Ten

      Chapter Eleven

      Chapter Twelve

      Chapter Thirteen

      Chapter Fourteen

      Chapter Fifteen

      Chapter Sixteen

      Chapter Seventeen

      Chapter Eighteen

      Chapter Nineteen

      Chapter Twenty

      Chapter Twenty-One

      Chapter Twenty-Two

      Chapter Twenty-Three

      Chapter Twenty-Four

      Chapter Twenty-Five

      Epilogue

      Promissed to Me

      About the Publisher

      Share Your Thoughts

      About the Author

      Robin Lee Hatcher is the author of over thirty-five novels and novellas. Her books have won numerous awards, including the Christy Award for excellence in Christian fiction, the Romance Writers of America RITA Award, the Heart of Romance Readers’ Choice Award, the Romantic Times Career Achievement Award, and the Favorite Author Award from Affaire de Coeur. For her efforts on behalf of literacy, Laubach Literacy International named their romance award The Robin.

      In those rare moments when she isn’t working on a new book, Robin and her husband, Jerry, like to travel. Hobbies are nearly nonexistent since she sold her first book, but she enjoys the occasional golf game (don’t ask about scores!), loves movies (both old and new) and live musical theater, and is a season ticket holder with the Idaho Shakespeare Festival. She also loves to spend time with her two daughters and three young grandchildren.

      She invites readers to find out more by visiting her Web site at http://www.robinleehatcher.com, by e-mail to robinlee@robinleehatcher.com, or by sending a #10 self-addressed stamped envelope to: Robin Lee Hatcher, P.O. Box 4722, Boise, ID 83711–4722.

      Acknowledgments

      No book is truly written alone. Everything that touches a writer affects her work in some way. Recognizing the truth of that, I’m grateful for the love of my husband, daughters, mother, and all the rest of my wonderful extended family. I’m thankful for the members of the LoveKnot, who have sustained me with their prayers and inspired me to reach ever higher, both in my writing and in my life. And I’m grateful to all the terrific people at Zondervan who have worked along with me on the Coming to America series. Thanks especially to Dave, Lori, and Sue.

      Above all, I want to thank my faithful readers. I appreciate all the letters I receive and feel blessed when a reader shares how one of my stories has touched a heart in some way. Thank you for sharing yourselves with me.

      For all of you, I pray that this old Irish blessing will come true:

      May the road rise to meet you.

      May the wind be always at your back.

      May the sun shine warm upon your face,

      And the rains fall soft upon your fields.

      And until we meet again,

      May God hold you in the palm of his hand.

      Preface

      To my readers:

      In His Arms was written in 1997 for the general romance market and was published in 1998. Since then, God has called me into a deeper walk of faith, as well as calling me to use the talents he entrusted to me in a new and better way—writing novels that share my hope in Christ.

      I was delighted when Zondervan expressed interest in revising and reissuing my Coming to America series, because I’m fond of these stories. While you will not find the faith message as overt in these books as you will find in the novels that I’ve written specifically for Christian publishing houses, I believe you will find the stories entertaining and uplifting.

      One of my goals as a writer is to make my characters true to life, with all the faults and foibles that real people have. Unbelievers and Christians alike make mistakes, make foolish choices, fall into sin. I don’t know any perfect Christians, and so I don’t write about them. What I always hope to share is that we have Someone to call upon Who is perfect, Someone Who can take who we are and what we do and turn it into good when we trust in Him.

      In His grip,          

      Robin Lee Hatcher     

      Proloque

      Ellis Island, New York Harbor

      April 1897

      With her heart hammering in anticipation, Mary Emeline Malone searched for her belongings in the ground-floor baggage room of the federal depot. The immigration process had been no worse than she’d expected and no better either. Long and stressful, to be sure, but bearable. Even though she was a woman traveling unescorted, Mary’s admission to America had been granted with surprisingly little fuss. Of course, she had lied through her teeth on any number of questions—especially the one about her husband waiting for her—but she wasn’t about to consider the right or the wrong of those lies now.

      By some small miracle, she found her valise and satchel without undue delay. Then, with them safely in hand, she hurried outside into the fresh air, joining the flow of immigrants on their way to the ferry slips.

      She looked about her for a glimpse of her friends, Beth Wellington and Inga Linberg. She’d become separated from them many hours ago, but still she had hoped to be able to see them one last time, if only to say a proper good-bye. Later today, if all had gone well for them inside, Beth would be taking the train to Montana, and Inga, her parents, and sisters would be leaving for Iowa. Only Mary would remain in New York.

      A fearsome city, that.

      She stared across the choppy waters of the harbor. Somewhere in that sprawling mass of humanity known as New York City, she would find Seamus Maguire, her fiancé and the father of her unborn child. When she found him, they would be married, just as they’d planned before he left England. Seamus hadn’t expected her to join him this soon, but he would be glad to see her. He loved her, Seamus did.

      Mary reached into her pocket, felt the scrap of paper with Ryan Maguire’s address written on it. That’s where Seamus had said he would stay until he found work, with his cousin Ryan. It was where she had sent letters to Seamus in the few months they’d been apart. Now it was where she would find him.

      Faith, if she didn’t believe her new life in America was going to be perfect altogether.

      One

      New York City, July 1898

      The door to the master’s study swung shut behind Mary, causing her to gasp in surprise. But it was Winston Kenrick’s soft chuckle that made her whirl about and her pulse quicken in dread.

      I wondered how soon you would get to cleaning this room, Mary.

      If ’tis a bad time, Master Kenrick, I could be coming back later. When you’re not so busy and all.

      He smiled, but the look was more feral than comforting. I wouldn’t think of causing you the trouble. Come in and be about your business.

      Mary tried to disregard the ominous feeling in her chest. In the months she had worked for the Kenricks, nothing untoward had happened to her. Yet it seemed the master was always watching her. It seemed he was around every corner, in every room, waiting, observing, smiling. The truth be told, she didn’t like him much.

      I’ll be trying not to disturb you, sir, she said as she set down her bucket of soapy wash water. She pulled the feather duster from her waistband and walked to the bookcase, where she set to work, ignoring the man behind her.

      The master chuckled again. But don’t you know, my dear girl? You always disturb me. You can’t help it.

      I’m thinking I don’t know what you mean, she replied without looking at him. But she was more than sure she did know.

      Winston moved closer. How is that little boy of yours, Mary Malone?

      Her heart nearly stopped. Her hand stilled, the feather duster resting on the spine of a book. Me boy? she whispered. She’d never told anyone in the Kenrick household about Keary. How did Master Kenrick know?

      It must be difficult, raising an infant on your own. What is he? Almost a year old now?

      She remained stubbornly silent.

      I could make it easier for you, Mary.

      I’m having no complaints as things are now.

      His hands alighted on her shoulders. Slowly, he turned her to face him.

      Winston Kenrick was a handsome man in his mid-forties. His hair was silver gray, but rather than making him look old, it added to his distinguished appearance. He had enormous power and influence among the wealthy members of New York society. He watched Mary now with eyes that said he knew exactly how to use his power and influence to get what he wanted.

      My dear girl, you have no idea what I’m offering.

      Mary’s infamous temper flared. But I’m thinking I do know, sir, and I’ll be having you know I’ve got no interest in the likes o’ you. Not for any amount of your charm or your money.

      His eyes narrowed. Don’t play the innocent with me.

      Oh, I’ll not be pretending innocence, sir. You already know I’m not married and I have me a son, so there’d be no use to it. But I learned me lesson well with Seamus Maguire, I did. I’ve been betrayed, but I’ll not be used. Not by you nor any other man.

      She tried to push him away, but his grip on her arms tightened.

      Winston grinned. I think I can change your mind. He kissed her.

      For a moment, she didn’t fight him, too stunned to move. But then he chuckled low in his throat, pleased with himself and with what he was doing.

      Her anger flared hotter. She bit his lip. Hard.

      He howled as he stepped back from her. Mary used the opportunity to slip away, dashing to the opposite side of the master’s enormous cherry wood desk. Winston, in turn, positioned himself between her and the door.

      He touched his lip with his fingertips, then looked at them, as if checking for blood. You Irish witch, he said softly. The words would have seemed less terrifying if he’d shouted them.

      Just let me go, Master Kenrick. I’ll collect me pay and be gone from here.

      Are you aware that the authorities could deport you because you lied to get into the country? You told them you were married. They could send you back to Ireland. He paused a heartbeat, then added, Without your son.

      They’d never do that. Fear made her mouth dry, her tongue thick. They’d never do that.

      Do you dare take that chance?

      She shook her head, whether in disbelief or in answer to his question, she didn’t know. I can’t betray Mrs. Kenrick nor meself in such a way.

      He moved toward the door. I have very powerful friends. Police officers. Judges. I can make certain you never see your son again. Never. Is that what you want? With a click, he turned the key, locking the door. Then he faced her again. Be careful what you decide, my dear. Be very careful. Your son’s future is entirely up to you.

      Keary. Me darlin’ Keary.

      Winston moved to the center of the room, then crooked his finger at her. With heart pounding, she came around from behind the desk. She told herself that no matter what happened, she’d lived through worse and survived.

      That’s a good girl.

      Winston stepped toward her. Mary stepped backward.

      He grinned, enjoying the game.

      She bumped against the desk, stopping her retreat.

      Winston laughed aloud. Playing it coy, Miss Malone?

      Don’t do this, sir. Just let me go, and I’ll be no more trouble to you.

      You’re no trouble to me now.

      For Keary, she reminded herself. To protect Keary she could bear anything.

      Winston reached for her. Panic surged, and she instinctively tried to push his hands away.

      No! she cried.

      Irritation flashed in his eyes, and with unexpected swiftness, he rent the fabric of her blouse. Let’s be done with this silliness.

      Leave me be!

      He pressed her against the desk. She tried to brace herself, hoping for enough leverage to shove him away. Then her right hand closed around something large, cool, and hard on the desktop.

      You’ll not be doing this to me! she cried.

      Mary swung her arm with all her might. The second after she hit Winston on the side of his head with the object in her hand, she saw a look of disbelief in his eyes. He stumbled backward a few steps, teetered drunkenly, and crumpled to the floor, lying in an awkward position on the Oriental rug.

      Breathing hard, Mary took a step toward her employer. She nudged him with the toe of her shoe, but he didn’t move. He made no sound. Then she saw the red stain spreading near his head across the elegant fibers of the carpet.

      Faith and begorra! she whispered, her eyes widening. Have I killed him, then?

      The answer lay before her, still and unmoving.

      She would swing for this, see if she wouldn’t. And then what would become of her wee Keary? She would have to get her son and run away before the master’s body was found. She had little time to think about where she would go. She simply knew she must go quickly.

      She felt light-headed and out of breath as she hurried across the room. It wasn’t until she reached for the key that she realized she still held the weapon she had used against Winston Kenrick. She looked at the ornate box. It was real silver, she’d wager, and valuable. It was better if she took it with her. The police might think the house had been burglarized. Maybe they wouldn’t notice the absence of one of the housemaids if they were looking for a thief instead.

      Turning the key, Mary unlocked the study door, then turned the knob. She trembled as she looked out into the hallway. If one of the other servants were to see her…

      The hall was empty. Now if she could get out of the house without being seen.

      She remembered her bodice was torn down the front and knew she couldn’t go running through the streets of New York, down Madison Avenue itself, looking like this. People would know she was guilty of something. They would summon the police and have her arrested. All would be lost.

      Panic threatened to overwhelm her.

      Use your head, Mary, me darlin’ girl, her da’s voice whispered in her head. One hapless act may undo you, but one timely one will put all to right. Think, now.

      Mary forced herself to be calm and work things through in her mind. She knew Mrs. Norris, the cook, kept a spare apron hanging near the rear kitchen door. If Mary put it on, it would hide her ripped bodice. And her hat…She needed her hat. She needed to look like any other servant girl, out running errands for her mistress.

      She glanced over her shoulder at the body of Winston Kenrick, and a shiver ran through her. He’d been an evil man, he had, but she would always be sorry she’d killed him. Because of it, she was certain she’d never know a moment’s peace for the rest of her miserable life.

      Blanche Loraine was going home to die. She’d seen all the fancy doctors her considerable wealth could afford—which meant, in her humble opinion, far too many of the educated idiots. She’d listened to their collective advice. And now she was going back to Idaho to spend what time she had left with the people she knew best. Not that she expected any of them to mourn her passing.

      Her lapdog, Nugget, whimpered for attention.

      I know, boy, Blanche said as she stroked his silky coat. I’m not looking forward to the trip either. But won’t we be glad to get outta New York City.

      Nugget licked her gloved hand.

      A sudden coughing jag gripped Blanche. She covered her mouth with her handkerchief and tried to subdue the wretched hacking that seemed ready to rip her lungs right out of her body. Even as she fought for control, she noticed the couple opposite her get up from the seat and move to another part of the passenger car. She thought of a few choice—and most unladylike—things she could do. Of course, Blanche Loraine was no lady and had never pretended to be.

      As she folded the handkerchief, she noticed the red stains on the white cloth.

      Miss Loraine, one of the doctors had said to her yesterday, you should not undertake such an arduous journey at this time.

      Idiot, she remembered thinking. He’d just finished telling her that her condition wasn’t likely to improve. So exactly when was it she was supposed to travel home?

      Excuse me, mum. Would you be allowing us to sit here?

      Drawn from her musings, Blanche looked up at the prettiest face she’d seen in all her born days. And in her line of work, Blanche had more than a passing knowledge of what made a woman beautiful. Of course, she said, waving toward the seat opposite her. Sit yourself right down.

      The young woman—in her late twenties, Blanche guessed—set her small child on the indicated seat, then, standing on tip-toe, managed to shove her satchels onto the rack overhead. As she sat beside the toddler, she adjusted her straw hat, which had been knocked slightly askew during her efforts with the luggage. Her ink-black hair was thick and curly, and long wisps had escaped her hairpins to coil at her nape. She had a heart-shaped face with a milky complexion that was absolutely flaw-less. Her eyes were dark brown, fringed in thick black lashes, and there was the look of a trapped animal in those eyes that intrigued Blanche.

      You going far? she asked.

      The young mother shook her head, shrugged, then quickly looked out the window, as if wanting to avoid the question.

      My name is Blanche Loraine.

      After a long moment, she met Blanche’s gaze again. Mary Emeline Malone. Her eyes grew round, and she pressed her lips together tightly.

      She’s in trouble and didn’t mean to tell me her name. But what kind of trouble? Aloud, she said, Well, Mary, it’s a pleasure to meet you. Who is this little man you’ve got with you?

      Again she was silent a spell before answering. Me son, Keary Malone.

      The boy bore more than a slight resemblance to his mother. He had the same wavy black hair and the same large brown eyes. But he knew how to smile, something Blanche suspected his mother hadn’t done freely in quite some time.

      Keary leaned forward, staring at Nugget, his arms out-stretched.

      Oh, I see you like dogs. Blanche lifted her pet off her lap. This is Nugget.

      The child laughed and bounced his pudgy hands against the dog’s back.

      Be careful, Keary, his mother said softly. Then she looked over her son’s head, staring out the window with an anxious gaze. I’m thinking we should be under way by now. Could there be trouble?

      Trains hardly ever leave on time.

      Mary worried her lower lip with her teeth. Fear was stamped on her pretty features as clearly as anything Blanche had ever seen. Oddly enough, it bothered her.

      Blanche Loraine was not a charitable woman by nature. She knew the value of a dollar, and she didn’t squander her money on anything she didn’t believe might bring her a profit. Still, there was something about Mary Emeline Malone that tugged at her life-hardened heart.

      Tickets, a man called from the rear of the car. Tickets, please.

      Mary started as if she’d been pinched. Fear was replaced by an expression of near-panic as the conductor drew closer.

      Blanche reached forward and squeezed Mary’s knee, drawing her gaze. Sit still and say nothing, she warned. Do you hear me?

      Mary nodded.

      Give me your passenger ticket. She held out her hand. After Mary obeyed, Blanche continued, Now, take that boy in your arms and turn toward the window. Rock him as if you’re trying to get him to sleep. That way your face won’t be seen, and no one will remember you were here.

      By the time the conductor reached their seats, Blanche was ready for him. With one hand, she stroked Nugget. In her other hand, she held their tickets. My good man, she said in her most authoritative voice, someone has sold my niece the wrong ticket. As you can plainly see from mine, we are on our way to Whistle Creek, but she has been given one to Omaha.

      The conductor frowned as he took the tickets from her. She shoulda said something ’fore now.

      Well, don’t you think she would have if she’d noticed? She thought she was dealing with competent people. Goodness, it isn’t easy, traveling with a child and an irascible aunt. Now see that her ticket is exchanged for one to match my own. There’ll be a handsome reward in it for you if you can do it quickly.

      I’ll see to it, ma’am. Don’t you worry.

      As soon as the conductor was gone, Mary Malone turned from the window. I’m wondering altogether why you did that, Mrs. Loraine.

      There’s no missus in front of my name. Folks back in Whistle Creek call me Miss Blanche. You can, too. She cocked one eyebrow. And to tell you the truth, I’m not sure why I did it. I suppose because there’s a look about you.

      A look, mum? What do you mean?

      Nothing really. Blanche lowered her voice so as not to be overheard. Where in Ireland are you from?

      Mary’s reply came softly. I was born in County Armagh.

      How long have you been in America?

      More than a year, just. She held her son more closely. But you’ve not answered me question. Why did you do what you did? I can’t be paying you back. She tilted her head, thrusting her chin slightly forward, the gesture filled with pride and a bit of bravado.

      Blanche waved her hand. I’m not asking you to pay me back, girl. Her own retort surprised her, and she wondered if she spoke the truth. She frowned as she sought a believable explanation. I’m not a well woman, Mary. I came to New York to seek the advice of medical experts. She laughed sharply. Experts. Ha! Now I’m headed home, and I need a companion to make the journey more enjoyable and to help me should my health worsen.

      But you know nothing about me.

      I know you’re in some sort of trouble.

      Mary paled.

      Perhaps that was why she was helping her. Because Blanche remembered a time, many years ago, when she’d been in trouble and afraid, and there had been no one in the world who would help her. She’d fought for everything she’d ever had in this life. No one had cared about her, about whether she lived or died. Maybe she didn’t want to leave this world without helping some other poor girl avoid what she’d been through.

      Where’s your husband?

      A pause, then, Me son’s father is dead and buried these many months.

      Ah, so he never married you, the blackguard.

      Blanche’s gaze dropped to the toddler in Mary’s lap. The boy had fallen asleep. He looked cherubic. He was plump and well cared for. Loved, the way a child ought to be loved.

      She looked at his mother again. Let me help you, Mary Malone. If you decide you want to get off the train at any time, you’re free to do so. You’ll owe me nothing. But if you want to come all the way to Idaho with me, then you’ll be welcome.

      Idaho?

      Yes, that’s where I live. Whistle Creek, Idaho.

      Mary was silent

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